My mother read Little House in the Big Woods to me when I was young. It’s the first book I remember hearing aloud, and I adored it. Of all the Little House series, that one remains my favorite and the one from which I remember the stories most vividly. I read it to myself many times as I grew older. It wasn’t until I was reading it to my own children, though, that a certain section suddenly took on new meaning.

Pa is away, and Ma is very worried. She’s in the cabin with Mary and Laura and baby Carrie, and it’s late at night and dark. Baby Carrie is already asleep in the bed, but Ma goes and picks her up and sits down in the rocking chair with her, holding her and rocking her in the firelight.

I was reading this aloud when it struck me – I knew that feeling. I knew exactly why she did that. She was scared and worried and the comfort of that sweet, warm little body meant everything to her.

Who knows how many times I’d read that section and just read past those words. They were just describing an action. They weren’t that important. But they were. They told precisely how upset Ma was, how desperate for comfort and assurance. Those words had a world of meaning in them that I’d simply never understood before because I hadn’t been there yet.

But now, as I read to my own children, I had. I had held a sleeping child against fear and anxiety. I had held warmth and sweet innocence as a barrier against the world. My kids couldn’t understand why I cried when I read that part, and I couldn’t really explain it. They hadn’t been there yet, either.

I feel that way a lot when I read Scripture now, passages take on richer, deeper meaning than I’ve ever understood before. Some of the differences are quick and obvious. I had heard and read the words, “…that He gave His only begotten son…” my whole life, but they felt very different when I had a child of my own.

Sometimes the deeper meaning takes me longer to figure out. There’s a section of Psalms that I’ve been pondering now for many, many months.

As a father has compassion on his children, so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him; for he knows how we are formed, he remembers that we are dust. Psalm 103:13-14

I repeat this passage to myself. I think about it frequently. “He remembers that we are dust.” What is it about that section that has taken on such significance?

And then I realized. It’s because I know that feeling.

I have children out on their own in the big, wide world now, and I’m sure the world sees full-grown adults. But I remember, I remember when she was a baby, I remember when he was a toddler, I remember that middle-schooler. She was amazing, he was wonderful. But growing up is hard, and the world is hard. The courage and strength she had to get this far, the effort it took to be who he is now, I remember all those things. I store them up in my heart, those memories. I lean on them when I see those grown-up children struggle, when I see them fall.

That’s how God looks at us. He remembers when you were an infant, He remembers when I was a small child. He remembers everything we’ve gone through, every time we’ve struggled. He remembers. He knows how we were formed. He is loving and compassionate and gracious. He remembers that we are dust.

I’m so glad He does.